


Night Watch - a twist at the end.

by PunnyadtGoreny



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Book: Night Watch (Discworld), Fanfiction, M/M, Nigh Watch, Night Watch - with a twist at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-03-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:41:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22772740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PunnyadtGoreny/pseuds/PunnyadtGoreny
Summary: The scene is set at the end of Night Watch, when Vetinari and Vimes meet in the cemetery, although somewhat bent to the purpose of my story. Sam and Havelock realize that they have feelings for each other, and each of them deals with it in their own way.I saw a drawing that inspired this short story; it was an interpretation of the end of the book... although I have to confess I would have never thought of this twist if it wasn't for the drawing.
Relationships: Havelock Vetinari/Samuel Vimes, Sybil Ramkin/Samuel Vimes
Comments: 6
Kudos: 63





	1. May 25th

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rebelflet - tumblr](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=rebelflet+-+tumblr), [Suzanne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suzanne/gifts).



It’s the small hours of the night. He wakes with a deep sigh that resonates in his chest; a sigh that should lift all burdens, forgive all sins, cleanse all hearts. A sigh that then would and should start the new day. He looks at his lover slumbering on his chest momentarily stirring at his sigh. So much passion, so much fury, so much sorrow, so much love and all pointed at him, only him.  
  
He recalls the evening before, and the circumstance under which they’ve met. May 25th, the day to be remembered. He walked up to the cemetery to contemplate the time when insanity took over his city. As a young assassin back then, he didn’t have a personal interest in the revolution. He didn’t know the men now resting in the seven graves or cared for their fight. The lilac’s scent shading the graves however brought back the memories of sergeant Keel, who tried to install some sanity in a senseless world and stood up for the voiceless, powerless masses of the city when no-one asked him, let alone wanted him to do so. On the eve of May 25th, thirty years ago, for him he joined the fight. He fought side by side with Keel’s men, long after the sergeant fell. He didn’t fight for honor or justice - assassins never do -, but the men’s passion, their love for their leader swept over him and he found himself taken by their rage, by their thirst for revenge. He was younger then.  
  
Today he found he wasn’t the only one who felt respect was due. Someone else had come alone to reflect. While observing the grieving face from the shadows and taking in the slumped back, the almost broken, posture so uncharacteristic of the figure, a rare longing stole over him. He wanted to comfort, to caress this anguished face, to soothe away the pain. It sickened him to see someone so strong, so steadfast, and oh so true in that half-slumped, half-sitting position. He stepped forward and softly touched a shoulder, which shuddered in response. He was expecting a dagger, but instead, a hand reached up and held onto his hand. Brown eyes searched for his and he was taken aback by the bottomless grief he saw in them. Gone was the ever-burning anger, the just fury to arrest even the gods if they didn’t play fair. Only the terrible sense of loss was there, accompanied by a dark emptiness. He was at loss as to what to say, so he gestured for a walk instead. They kicked up the dust on their way out, leaving the scent of the lilac behind, and headed toward the ever-bustling city on the other side of the graveyard gate. They walked and he talked, faintly aware of the fact that he was working both ends of the conversation. His feet led him towards the palace and as they reached the side gate, they started for the door in such rare agreement even longtime lovers would be jealous of.  
  
It came as a mild surprise that his companion would follow him without question when they started up the stairs, although an eyebrow was raised when he opened the door to his bedchamber. He took in the quizzical expression and gave in to temptation. The first kiss was shy, almost hesitant and ready to draw back should it feel unwanted. It met with a short-lived and already torn resistance, then desire poured over the dam, so strong that it took down his defenses and he was swept away by such thirst, such pure lust, that he gasped and when they finally collapsed panting on the bed, he gulped for air. They fell asleep hugging each other tight, holding onto that fragile thread that for that night at least, bound them together.  
  
He looks down on the peaceful face sleeping in his arms and feels a pang of guilt. What if he stayed back and hadn’t reached out, what if he hadn’t purposefully led the way to the palace, what if he hadn’t been the one to kiss first. But then again, he wasn’t sure, he couldn’t have been. Oh, he’s been cultivating this affair for quite some time and smugly felt that the time would come. But even he is surprised that it was that easy. Now that he got what he thought he wanted… now he is not so sure anymore.  
  
He knows what the morning will bring. Fury fed by shame, loathing stemming from feeling betrayed. But for the small hours of the night he tamed the beast and he hoped that for once he’s not right. For feelings he thought dead for a long time have surfaced and he has found love, something he didn’t think he was capable of anymore.


	2. The Lover

He is sitting on Keel’s grave. The lilac’s scent fills his lungs. He knows it will all make sense one day, and peace would come. For now though in the painful movie of his memories he’s still standing on the barricade, shouts, cries, clanging of metal engulfing him. So many lives needlessly spent for only because they did the job they didn’t have to do. They could have fled with pride and without shame, but they stayed and fought. Not for honor or fame, there was nothing noble or glorious in their fight, but they felt they owed it to the city, to their mates, to themselves. Not many living still know the names of the fallen, one had to be there to remember. He wants to remember, if only for one day. He brushes aside the memories for the rest of the year. It’s not that he forgets. He just puts it away, somewhere safe and cradles it till the day comes again.  
  
He sighs a deep, painful sigh and buries his face in his palms. He was there for the second time and still couldn’t make a difference. History always finds a way. He rather feels than hears the movement behind him. A hand touches his shoulder. Against all his survival instincts he doesn’t spring with a dagger in hand, but reaches up instead, holds the hand and turns looking for the pair of icy blue eyes. Why should he be surprised? He’s not the only one who reflects, who was there, still lives and wants to remember. He looks scornfully for the cold pity in those cool blue eyes bearing down on him but sees only deep sorrow and understanding. He rises, mesmerized by the eyes, skeptical that such feelings exist in that calculating mind. He blinks and the magic is broken, but so is his anger as he can’t summon his fury, can’t seem to find anything to be angry about. He accepts the silent invitation for a walk and an arm reaches around his shoulder. His copper boots tell him that they are leaving the cemetery and head for the posh part of the city. His city. How many times he had strolled those streets at night, stood under roofs in the pouring rain, smoking a cigar? How many times he would wake up in the gutter, drunk to the bone while the city watch was being reduced meticulously to a few incapable bodies and it was just too damn much to bear and stay sober? So often in those days before Sybil, before becoming a knight by being made the Commander of the Watch, and as a final stab at his conscience being appointed to the Duke of Ankh, an act intended to piss off the noble snobs of the city. Alas, the very person whose little games amounted to those appointments was walking by his side. It doesn’t matter, not here, not on this day, perhaps not anymore. It’s all empty inside and his companion’s words echo in the hollow of his soul. An occasional yes or no rolls off his tongue, unaware whether he murmurs them at the right time. He doesn’t need to look up; his foot reminds him that he’s walking up to the palace They turn toward the side entrance in such agreement that even he is faintly bemused, and they step through the beckoning door.  
  
Up the stairs and into the bedchamber, he raises an eyebrow and then reality strikes. Although he expects the kiss, as lips brush his own, he steps back instinctively first. To his surprise the kiss is shy, almost apologetic and immediately withdrawn at his reaction. Suddenly lust steals over him, and he returns the kiss with force. For once he wants to be in charge. He wants to break the cold steel, he wants to thaw the ice, and wipe out the arrogance but instead he finds no resistance, no power-struggle but a soft and warm hug and love that engulfs and enables him. He knows he’s lost. He has no answer for tenderness, for honest submission. His weakness exposed he collapses into the welcoming arms and drowns in sweet carelessness.  
  
A deep sigh lifts his head and he stirs. Half asleep he takes in the surroundings, then his feelings and yet again he’s at a loss to summon his fury. He strangely feels complete, content and above all happy. He doesn’t want this to go, not here, not for now. Let the day turn into tomorrow before he allows his pride to sneak back.


	3. …and the day turns into tomorrow

The tall, catlike man rises first and looks down to the other stirring in his bed. His lover is slim too, but more heavily built and a long scar draws over his right eye. All in all, the man has a rougher look to him in contrast to his own cold blue eyes, and his thin, pale face framed by silken black hair. He knows the other is awake and for a few seconds, he contemplates his choices. If he is any judge of the copper’s character, he’ll be struggling with his pride, conscience, and loyalty when trying to face what happened last night. He’ll be also furious and mad at him thinking he took advantage of the situation. Oh well! He glances once more at the shifting body under the cover. His features soften, but he’s quick to recompose himself. He makes up his mind and leaves the room to give the man time to think, to let him make the first move. The Commander might, just might embrace what they have found last night. Although he has no high hopes, he’d give him a chance at least. He’d react to whatever action the other takes. Same as always.

The brown-haired man sits up slowly as the other closes the door behind him. Others would tense, look around and ask themselves what in the hell they’ve gotten into and whatever had happened last night. He’s not the type though. He always knows who does the looking. He dresses and stares out the window with unseeing eyes. Although he doesn’t like to complicate things, he senses too that this one will be difficult to shrug off. If only he knew what is expected of him. He feels his anger rising, although he’s not yet sure, who the target is. He presses his forehead to the glass to cool his fury, his breath paints tiny clouds on the window. He waits, his mind drawing a blank. When the bedroom door opens again, he turns and instinctively does the only thing he knows always works in uncharted situations: he stands to attention, helmet under his arm.

“Sir!”

The tall man walks in then lazily leans on the doorframe and those icy blue eyes watch the copper for a while with an unreadable expression. He takes in the tall silhouette framed by the window, the man with the wooden expression on his face. The fact, that the Commander didn’t start shouting at him is encouraging. Although he senses the other’s mounting anger but also sees a slight hesitance in his stance. The silence tightens between them, threatening to snap. Finally, he nods slightly and decides that this is how he would rather have him. This is how the city needs him. Strong and steadfast, grounded and angry. Telling him now, how he feels would only shake the Commander. Best assume the cruel ruler role once again. He sighs and walks to the window.

“Oh, do go away!”, says in a quiet, rather bored tone. His back turned on the other.

“Yessir!”, his fury rising, the Commander starts for the door. _”Dam the man! “_ – he is fuming inward. – “ _but then why would he make it easier on me?”_ Uncertain whether there’s something expected from him, he pauses at the door in an attempt to gather his thoughts.

“Congratulation on the birth of your son, Commander! Please give Sybil my regards.” –the dagger thrust into his heart immediately. The other does it so effortlessly, seemingly absentmindedly.

"Yessir! Thank you, Sir! – words grinding out like wood on sandpaper. Red rage ascending, he storms out.

The door slams and the tall man sits down behind his desk and looks expectantly at the door frame. He is rewarded by a faint cloud of plaster dust as fists are pounding on the wall. Not the first time either. He smiles but without pleasure. He did give him a chance after all. It would have been … hm … interesting if just for once he was wrong.


	4. Epilogue?

He wanders into the morning, fist-shaped dents in the wall still vivid. Those will definitely need a plasterer. He understands precisely why last night turned out the way it did. It doesn't make it any easier though. He passes several pubs. Oh gods! how a drink would help to clear his thoughts! But he knows exactly why he’s not going to have one. He would chase that down with another ten. He lights a cigar instead, trading one vice for another. He is mainly angry at himself, but even that is not that real, heartfelt, just fury. 

In his mind, he keeps replaying the emotions and events of the evening that then led to the bedroom and can’t help noticing, that the bastard showed up just at the right time in the right place to have it his way. But then he has a knack for this, doesn’t he?! Isn’t it the way he runs the city too? He constantly has his hands on the wheel and steers it to navigate the political storms and dangerous shores to avoid shipwrecking. Gods, he would even manipulate him, pull his strings and push his buttons to bend his righteousness, his deep care for the poor and powerless for his own purposes. Although he has to admit, even if he fights the other every step along the way, it always turns out in some infuriatingly twisted way for the good of the city.

His feet are propelling him through the streets. Sybil would be home, waiting for him with his son and there is no question about his love and devotion to her. What wouldn’t give his thoughts a rest though is that strange feeling he came across last night. That completeness, that perfect peace that had come over him is still lingering in his soul. It is unsettling, just as much as his suspicion that he would have not walked out of that room had the other showed any passion or even a trace of willingness to embrace what they have experienced together. He senses that his existence is holding its breath; his sanity is trying to grasp on something solid. 

He recalls the love he saw in those cool blue eyes last night. Was it there at all? Did he just imagine it while yearning for companionship? If it was there, then why him? The misfit copper, who is too stubborn to give up and surrender justice to the parading nobs of the city. He wouldn’t put it past the bastard that he was feigning it. But that act of absolute submission… who would fake that? Or betray that for that matter. As he looks deep into his heart though, he has to admit he couldn’t really care for the other man’s reasons; he is more occupied with his own feelings. Feelings that don’t really know which way they should go.

His sole feels the familiar cobblestones leading up to the house with the little nursery where young Sam is waiting for him to teach him to walk. He is good at teaching people to walk. He draws a deep breath to clear his chest and relax his body. _“Maybe it’s just as well”_ – he tells himself. _“Another pin on the bastard’s map and I am switched off again!”._ He shrugs and opens the door to the life he knows how to live.


	5. Doubts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a few weeks later Vetinari is wondering if he has made a mistake

Several weeks have passed and more often than not, mornings would find the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork in front of the window, observing the ever-bustling, fizzing city. His city. He felt content. The city worked. Various guilds of indefinite trades were organizing everyday life, and he only had to know where to put his finger, should the balance tip off. 

Deep in thought, he’s gazing through the window. Matters of state ever on his mind, one would think. Lately, though this isn’t entirely true. Sure, he keeps his fingers on the pulse of the city and gathers and processes information all the time, but his thoughts keep circling back to the night of May 25th.

Has he made a mistake? He had been shepherding this affair along for some time, thinking if there was no other way of bending Vimes to his will, he might just find a weak moment and break him. That moment seemed to come on the 25th, and he pounced on the opportunity… and it worked. Only it hadn’t. 

He sighs and turns away from the window. He was supposed to surface unscathed from the affair, but Vimes’ passion and lust swept him away. Feelings that he thought long dead has awakened, and occasionally he even catches himself yearning for the other’s company. 

Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of the City Watch, the Duke of Ankh. Vimes, with his proletarian ethics, cynicism and barely controlled rage against all oppressive systems, nobility, stupidity and pretty much everything that offends his personal sense of justice. Sir Samuel, whose inner beast is controlled by his strong sense of duty and – although he would never acknowledge this – by his love for the nameless, voiceless common people. The Commander, the man of the streets, with his natural sense for right and wrong, and his persistence in pursuing justice and his willingness to lay his life down for it. _“He would even fight me, the tyrant of the city, a skilled assassin if he thinks I am wrong.”_ The most cynical, stubborn, infuriating, vexing… rough but caring, and the most attractive man he has ever met. Sam...

He remembers clearly the slight hesitance in Vimes’ stance the morning after the night they spent together. The pause at the door, just before he drove the dagger home and made clear that the copper was dismissed. Since then, the Commander has been successfully dogging all official summons, and not even Vetinari’s little tricks to involve Lady Sybil would get him to turn up at any social occasions where the Duke of Ankh would otherwise have been expected. For some reason, his wife, usually unmoved by her husband’s whimpering when it comes to social events, was letting Sir Samuel off the hook. The man must be in turmoil.

Well, eventually, they will have to meet. The Commander has duties, and Vetinari is sure that come rain or braising sun, he would not neglect them. Thus, he waits, willing to meet Vimes on his terms. It doesn’t mean he won’t apply just a tiny push here or a gentle pull there to make sure it happens. After all, scheming, pulling levers, and playing with others’ emotions is his life.

But only when he is ready and has made up his mind. Ah! But sorting out his own feelings seems to cause an unexpected difficulty. Politics and power games have always been his life’s focus. He has succeeded in setting up all the leading figures of the city in a way that they seem to be content to keep the Patrician in power just to prevent their friends from grabbing the handle. In return, they only want him to be without weaknesses. He just simply couldn’t afford to trust one person unconditionally, couldn’t depend significantly on or care deeply for one individual. Because if he did, he would not be in control anymore, and that would jeopardize everything he has built. He shivers at the thought. He is not ready to find out what he would be if he wasn’t the Patrician of Ankh Morpork.

Thus, he settles for waiting. For now.


	6. The Commander

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vimes decides not to bother about May 25th and writes his report.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler for Going Postal

Sir Samuel Vimes, Commander of the City Watch, was indeed in turmoil, although for all the wrong reasons. He's been successfully neglecting his ducal responsibilities so far, but this morning his wife has put her foot down. After all, he cannot miss a ball in his own house. "Why?" – he inquired – "Why a ball? Just because we, that is, the Duke and Duchess of Ankh are invited everywhere? Why must we do the polite thing and host in return? " But Sybil remained unmovable, and thus he was fuming as he walked to the watch house. Not only did he disliked the posh cutlery that got dragged out for these occasions but hated the pompous snobs, who called themselves the aristocrats of the city. 

The fact that by title bestowed upon him by the Patrician, he was one of them, just further darkened his mood. This was guilt by association. There's better be something waiting for him at Pseudopolis Yard to take his mind off the evening, otherwise, he'd explode. 

Corporal Cheery Littlebottom, the Watch’s most prominent dwarf jumped up nervously as the Commander walked in: "Sir! The Patrician was…"

"Send Carrot!" barked Vimes cutting off the little dwarf.

"Only Captain Carrot is off today and won't be back till the night shift, Sir!" squeaked the little dwarf.

"Great!" Vimes grunted, "What does he want?"

"He's asking for a report on the Post Office accidents, Sir."

"Why?"

"He has just elected a new Postmaster General, Sir."

"What? The body of the last one hasn't even cooled yet!"

Cheery blinked apparently at a loss of words, then she cleared her throat and continued, though somewhat reluctantly.

"The message said that he wants it in writing, Sir, and that you can give it to him tonight at the ball."

Vimes' face reddened. "He won't-" “ _But of course, he would accept Sybil's invitation. The bloody bastard!”_ loud he said "You know, Cheery, sometimes I could strangle his lordship with my bare hands! Why does he keep appointing poor buggers to lead the post office? Unless he found an alternative to hanging, I don't see the point…" – his thoughts trailed away, but Cheery's nervous cough snapped his attention back to the task at hand.

"All right, Cheery. What's the name of the new postmaster?"

"Moist von Lipwig, Sir!"

"Nice one." Vimes snorted, "Tell Fred and Nobby to see if they can find anything on him."

"Yes, Sir! Lord Vetinari also has borrowed one of our golem officers to accompany Mr. Lipwig for his protection."

"Really?" Now Vimes was intrigued. "Maybe, just for once, Vetinari has taken my advice seriously after all."

"I wouldn't know about it, Sir!" Cheery smiled relieved, that the Commander seemed to have calmed down a bit.

Vimes shrugged and went upstairs. He slammed the door of his office and stared at the heap of paperwork accumulating on his desk, willing it to disappear. He pushed some paper around, signed a few, and then sat down to pull the information collected on the post office "accidents" together. It had fishy written all over it. The poor sods, who held the post before, seemed to be either somehow distracted or in some sort of delirium and kept walking into empty spaces, falling several stories and breaking their necks. Some must have seen something that terrified them to death, or just simply got buried under thousands of undelivered letter.

Deep in his thoughts, he glanced out of the window and saw the Great Trunk's clack tower. He couldn't help thinking that there was something dubious going on with the Trunk's board. Those deadly accidents on the clack towers, the frequent shutdowns, the rising prices… his skin prickled, and somehow he knew that they were related to the nightmare that the post office had lately become. He just couldn't prove it. He wrote the report as best as he could while emphasizing that he blamed Vetinari for letting the semaphore company fall into the hand of bankers and rich crooks.

Vetinari. “ _Now that is going to be interesting_. _To see him for the first time since the night of the 25 th._” Vimes lit a cigar and inhaled the first pull with great pleasure. “ _What happened three weeks ago?_ ” After a few days talking to himself and agonizing over his feelings, he just simply stopped thinking about it as if that would make the events of that night unhappen. 

He made some half-hearted attempts to talk to Sybil about it but scared away every time at the sight of his wife's loving smile. What would he tell her anyway? _"Dear! I was in great despair on the eve of May 25 th on the account of having relived the revolution for the second time, while trying to make sure that my younger self and I stayed alive. My only hope to get back home was that I played along with history, trying not to change events much, even if that meant that I watched others die…again. Then, as I returned, Vetinari showed up with a handkerchief and offered to soothe my pain away?"_ Somehow this just didn’t sound right. Nothing had sounded right about that cursed night. What happened to him? Why did he give in so easy? 

Vimes had never been much of a thinker and couldn't be bothered with more complex emotions than liking or disliking the food that was put in front of him or doing the job that was in front of him meanwhile trying to survive. He loved his wife and his son, which meant he would lay down his life to protect them without a second thought. He passionately and evenly distrusted everyone, regardless of species, religion, gender, and everyone was guilty by default. That made him unbiased and enabled him to see things for what they were without being burdened by one-sided prejudice. But he just couldn't make sense of the Patrician. Vetinari was a puzzle, and Vimes hated puzzles. He had given up long ago to understand Vetinari's intentions and concentrated his efforts instead on curbing his temper and resisting the urge to punch the man.

Lord Havelock Vetinari, The Patrician of Ankh Morpork. The Patrician whose rule in a weird, twisted way worked and made the city function well for the first time in hundreds of years. Lord Vetinari with his political games, always manipulating, stirring people around him to maintain his grip on the city’s heart. Playing the never-ending games of political schemes, delicate chess moves of social interactions, finding back doors and weak points, where direct confrontation didn’t work. _“_ _He certainly has a knack for controlling my own emotions.”_ A skilled assassin, a scheming, secretive and merciless bastard, but not unjust. The most annoying, vexing, sarcastic, ungrateful, shameless… but the most dangerous and beautiful man he has ever met. Havelock…

So, then what happened three weeks ago? Why would Vetinari, the most secretive and suspicious bastard ever lived, open up to him and expose himself, jeopardizing his own status while giving Vimes means to hurt him? “ _Because he knows I wouldn't betray him.”_ But what was his purpose? Ever since he'd known him, everything was a chess game for Vetinari, and he played for the thrill of the game. Vimes never ventured that far even to think that the man was capable of having feelings, let alone being passionate. 

He took another drag at the cigar and gazed into the curling smoke.

The trouble was that the night of May 25th made him realize, that he cared for the man more than he was willing to admit. It wasn't just about his duty to protect the leader of the city, not anymore. His original distrust and dismay had somehow turned into something resembling fondness, awe even. He gave in that easy on that cursed night because he'd been falling in love with Vetinari. It happened slowly with Vimes fighting it all the way, but that night made one thing crystal clear. He longed for the man's touch, and he hated himself for it. In a way, he was grateful that the Patrician switched him off back then and hadn’t made an earnest effort since then to talk to him. Even if they would speak, Vimes wasn't sure what he would say to him, what he could reveal from the turmoil in his soul. He shrugged and put out the stub. “ _We shall see tonight.”_


	7. The Ball

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...there's not a nook to hide in, not even in Sam's own house...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...still spoiling Going Postal...

Captain Carrot ushered Vimes out of Pseudopolis Yard at 5 pm to ensure that he made it home to Scone Avenue in time to clean up and get dressed for the ball. Vimes was yelling at the captain threatening to sack him, but Carrot used Lady Sybil as a shield knowing well that these were empty threats as the Commander wouldn’t argue with his wife’s polite request. Although he respected Vimes and would never betray him, still, Lady Sybil had her quiet way with people, and none of the Commanders’ men, who in any other case would go to war for Vimes, could say no to her. The captain also thought that Sir Samuel should leave his copper self behind, and finally act his class. The fact that Vimes hated his class and did little to hide his dismay in their company somehow managed to elude Carrot.

Thus Vimes grumbled and rumbled his way home knowing well that as soon as he stepped through the gates, Sybil would disarm him, gently taking away all the thorns and wrinkles he brought home, and he would grudgingly comply just to make her happy. She never ceased to amaze him with her unconditional love. On the contrary to all evidence, his wife thought that her husband had hidden depths and that deep inside, he was a gentle man destined for great things. Vimes also knew he had hidden depths, but unlike Sybil, he wasn’t all that keen on seeing anything stirred up from those depths. He was afraid of what might rise to the surface.

Maids were scurrying around, and the house bustled with activity and excitement as he walked in half an hour later. Willikins, his butler, was waiting for him with a hot bath and his clothes laid out on the bed. Vimes sighed when he saw the dark purple tailcoat with the maroon breaches and… oh no!... the crimson tights. _"Why? Why these civilian clothes?"_ His Commander of the Watch uniform, with breastplate, chain mail, gauntlets, leather breeches, and boots was just as serviceable, and at least he didn’t look like some pompous brat in them. And the hat with feathers! What was wrong with his helmet? Willikins could sense his master’s distress and readied one of his little drinks that had everything in it you wanted from a cocktail except alcohol. He paired it with the inevitable cigar. 

Vimes submerged in the hot bath with the drink in one hand and the cigar in the other. With a sudden, rising insurgency, he decided that he’d spend the night in the bathtub. He was the Commander of the Watch for gods’ sake! The second most powerful man in Ankh-Morpork! If he didn’t want to go to a ball, then he damn well shouldn’t have to! His determination lasted up until Sybil walked in, and with one of her little, knowing smiles kissed him on the cheek. “I asked Captain Carrot to make sure no-one will call you out tonight. I am sure the city can operate without you for one night.” and with that, Vimes was defeated. His last hope to somehow squirm out of this sailed away and quickly disappeared on the horizon. He sighed, kissed his wife, and made his way out of the bathtub.

“Well done, dear!” she smiled “I send in Willikins to help you get dressed. The guests will be arriving in half an hour or so.”

\----------------

Couples were twirling and swirling on the dance floor. The men who weren’t dancing attacked the buffet tables and talked in small groups. The women, on the other hand, preferred the bar and were chatting the evening away while keeping an eye on the ever-changing dynamics of the dancing couples. Sybil was shining. She tended to her guests, graciously moving from one group to another, chatting, charming, and always ready to form and re-form couples making sure that no-one was alone for long. Vimes, having exhausted his limited repertoire of small talk, was leaning on one of the door frames scanning the crowd lazily. His gaze followed Sybil around and he marveled at the natural grace with which his wife flawlessly managed the servants while finding time to entertain their guests. 

She was in her element, and Vimes delighted in her pleasure. He still hated the ball but was willing to make an effort to enjoy it, if only to make Sybil happy.

As he was scanning the groups, a pair of icy blue eyes caught his attention. In the middle of the bustle, he found a still island. Vetinari was standing in a group but still managed somehow to distance himself from the rest of the lords and ladies, and looked at the Commander with cool, detached interest. Vimes held his gaze for a second. Many possibilities ran through his mind. Bringing up the night of the 25th was out of the question. He quickly dismissed the idea of walking up to him and engaging in small talk with him too. There was no point. Vetinari didn’t do small talk, but you could be sure he would have some acidic remarks about Vimes’ outfit, and Sam didn’t want to give him that pleasure. He could present him with the report, but again that would warrant icy remarks of the Commander’s eagerness to please the tyrant. In the end, Vimes settled with shrugging off the Patrician’s attention and turned to look for Sybil again. She was nowhere to be seen, however.

Sam cursed under his breath and walked up to the bar, where Willikins readily handed over his special cocktail. Vimes' look pleaded for a whiskey, but the butler just shook his head, rather sadly, and offered a cigar instead. He took the glass along with the cigar and decided that it was time for him to take a break. He snuck into a small drawing-room and settled down comfortably in a plush chair. He sighed and stretched his legs contentedly, emptied his glass, and lit the cigar. He just needed to finish it, relax, and if he played it well, he could be back just in time to say goodbye to the guests.

“May I join you, Sir Samuel?”

 _“Gods forbid if it would be that simple!”_ he thought. Out loud, he said – “But of course my lord. I’ll have the report on the Post Office accidents ready for you in a second,” he added sourly while scampering up to sit at attention. “ _This is ridiculous! I am in my own house, in my own drawing-room, and off duty!”_

“I hope you don’t mind, though, if I finish my cigar first.” He added defiantly. Vetinari waved his hand dismissively. He sat down opposite Vimes and observed him with mild curiosity.

“I am glad you were able to distract yourself throughout the day.”

“Why thank you for helping me to take my mind off the ball,” the Commander retorted. His heart was pounding in his throat. _“What will be next?” he thought._

Vetinari cocked his head on one side, “Tell me, then, what do you think of the Great Trunk?”

“The Great Trunk? I thought you were interested in the Post Office.”

“Indeed. But you think there’s a relationship between the two.” It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. _“How does he do it? He didn’t even read my report.”_ He pinched the bridge of his nose and rubbed his temples as he tried to organize his thoughts.

“Well, Reacher Gilt, the head of the board is a fraud, and the board of directors is a bunch of rabid hyenas, interested only in short term profit. I can’t prove it, but I am certain they cheated the Dearhearts out of ownership. Since then they’ve been running down the semaphores to make more money and sell the downtrodden system when there’s no more left to milk out of it.” After a short pause, he added, “Again, there’s no proof, just an inkling, but I think Gilt is mercilessly killing any competition. I am certain that he is responsible for John Dearheart’s death.

“Quite so,” Vetinari said thoughtfully. “Why do you think his interested in crippling the post office?

“They don’t want any competition. The post office could steal the local traffic and some of the long-distance as well. Can’t prove it though, not yet anyway,” he shrugged.

“That reminds me. Lady Ramkin asked me to find you. It seems that against her quiet insistence on no-one disturbing you tonight, Captain Carrot was bold enough to defy her request. I am inclined to think it might be somewhat of great importance. “ Vimes was already on his feet. “Damn you!” he yelled. “You should have started with this!” and he was already reaching for the doorknob when Vetinari quietly said:

“Vimes, we need to clear the air.” The Commander’s hand froze midway through the air as he turned around. Time slowed down. Vetinari sighed. “I admit, I made a mistake a few weeks ago and gave in to temptation. I apologize.” The Patrician paused for a while, but when it became clear that he couldn’t expect anything else from Vimes at this point but stunned silence, he continued. “I am willing to take it as a one-night accident and move on if that is acceptable to you.”

Vimes recovered just enough to close his mouth and start shuffling through the possible answers. He swallowed a few times till he found his voice again, then said carefully:

“I think I could accept that.” He wanted to scream, to shake the man sitting so composed in front of him and shout into his face, that he had turned his world upside down. He wanted to tell him how his thoughts kept circling back to that night, and although he loved his wife, he was still craving the other’s touch. But instead, he gave in “Yes, I can do that,” he added quietly.

“We have an understanding then, Commander?” asked Vetinari.

“Yes, Sir,” Vimes murmured to the floor.

“Good, then I will seal it…”

“You don’t have to…”

“with a…”

“give it…”

“kiss…”

“in writing! What?”

Vetinari stood up and swiftly crossed the little space they had in between them, clapped the Commander's face in his hands, and kissed him gently, but passionately. Sam stepped back instinctively first, but then found himself returning the kiss with full force. When they finally parted, Vetinari took a deep breath and smiled, a rare, genuine smile.

“Ah! I thought so!” and with that, he opened the door “After you, Sir Samuel!”

Vimes walked out of the room in a fugue state, lips still tingling and his blood roaring in his ears. He didn’t really comprehend the where and when, till his swimming vision focused on Sybil and Carrot rushing towards them.

“There you are!” cried Sibyl. “Havelock, dear! You found him!”

“Sir! The Post Office is on fire!” Carrot’s exclamation finally made Vimes snap out of his delirium.


	8. Stirring up the ashes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and here we make our choices...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...still spoiling Going Postal...

It was 3:00 in the morning. The ruins of the post office were quietly smoldering. The golems did a great job. They didn’t so much put out the fire but instead removed anything that it could feed on, curbing the roaring flames, until they were reduced to flickering ember. The structure remained mainly intact, although the dome of the great hall went up in a cloud of smoke, some of the offices adapted an open floor policy, and there were considerably fewer heaps of undelivered mail.

Vimes was massaging his temple while trying to make sense of what happened. It had Reacher Gilt written all over it once again. Sure, the idiots at the post office used oil lamps to light the corridors and staircases, although the purpose eluded him. Not that anyone could use those passages. Most of it was barred by tons of ancient, undelivered mail. But still, it didn’t seem it was an accident.

Then there was the curious injury of the old Mr. Groat. Von Lipwig, the postmaster, insisted that the old man was hit by a falling beam, but the Commander saw plenty of claw inflicted wounds to doubt him. The pinhead apprentice – Stanley, wasn’t it? - insisted on hitting something with a bag of pins that had leathery wings. Still, Lipwig claimed it was an overgrown pigeon. Vimes wondered why it was so crucial for the postmaster to divert the suspicion of a foul play. It wasn’t that he had accused the man of starting the fire to begin with. 

Although he didn’t tell Lipwig, Angua sniffed out the banshee and confirmed that it was the creature that started the fire. Well, it didn’t really matter. The banshee got sliced up in the gears of the sorting engine at the end, and no one else got seriously hurt. Just another one of Reacher Gilt’s little games to sabotage the post office. He only wished he could prove it.

He rubbed his face and stifled a yawn. He wrote the report but decided it could wait. He was too tired to think, and definitely unfit to argue with Vetinari.

There was a knock on the door and Carrot stuck his head in, his face a mask of pained apology. Vimes knew what he was about to say. He sighed and got up.

“I am going home, Captain. He can wait until the morning.”

“His lordship’s coach is in the courtyard, Sir,” said Carrot apologetically, ready to duck.

“I am going home.” Vimes patted the captain on the shoulder as he passed him and walked to the back of the corridor, got into the privy, and propped the window open. He climbed out and took to the emergency ladder. He lowered himself onto the street beyond the watchhouse and walked up to the corner just in time to catch Carrot telling the coachman, that the Commander had already left, and his lordship would need to wait for the report till tomorrow morning. He smiled and lowered his head to light a cigar. Sam took a drag inhaling the smoke with pleasure while listening to the coach rattling away on the cobblestones. He turned and was about to set out to walk home when the skin prickled on his neck. He froze in midstride. Someone was watching him. He stared into the shadows.

“Ah, Sir Samuel!” a patch of darkness slowly took a human form, detached itself from the wall, and Vimes was looking at Vetinari’s thin smile. “Ready for a walk as always, I see. May I join you on your patrol, Commander?” Vimes sagged. He should have known that the bastard would come in person. He just didn’t think… well didn’t think that it was that important. He looked up sharply at Vetinari. “ _Unless it’s not about the Post Office.”_

“I was about to go home, Sir.” and he squinted at him to see if the other would take the bait. 

“Let us walk, then.” Vetinari gestured towards Broadway. Vimes shrugged and started walking, instinctively falling into the rhythmic steps of the patrolling officers. The Patrician picked up the rhythm of proceeding effortlessly, his ebony cane clicking on the cobblestones. They walked in silence, each deep in his own thoughts. Vimes didn’t notice, but the knuckles holding the cane were white, as Vetinari was trying to hold on to his precious self-control. Although he didn’t let on, he was on edge, his whole existence holding its breath. Sam’s passionate kiss earlier was all the confirmation Havelock needed to know that he could have this. He glanced sideways at the Commander. Under the wooden expression, Sam’s jaw muscles were working mightily, and Vetinari could hear him thinking. He wondered if he should push Vimes any further to force him to make up his mind. The moment presented itself when they crossed the Brass Bridge and the Palace loomed in front of them. Lord Vetinari turned to the Commander and casually raised an eyebrow. 

Vimes looked up, seemingly from some sort of delirium while comprehension slowly dawned. “ _And here we make our choices.”_ he thought. Vetinari didn’t come to discuss the fire or to delight in catching him sneaking out through the backdoor. He came to force him to make a decision. The fact alone that he came at all was an admission, Vimes just wasn’t sure what the other was admitting to. “ _Maybe I should ask him. I might just get a straightforward answer for once. But again, how would I know if it’s indeed honest?”_ He hated how his brain operated. It simply wasn’t able to trust anything, or anyone, especially if it came down to Sam’s own self-worth. 

Vetinari waited patiently, his posture radiating a calm, detached interest as if he was mildly curious as to what the subject of his observation would do next. Vimes suddenly got agitated and burst out.

“Why?” he earned himself a quizzical look. He decided to rephrase the question. “Why are you pursuing this? Why me?”

“Is it against your wish?” asked the Patrician quietly.

“No.” that came out slightly more quickly than he intended. “No” he shook his head “But I doubt that your interest lies exclusively in making me happy.” 

A soft, indulgent chuckle, “And why would that be so?”

“Because nothing is ever not a game for you, Lord Vetinari! Although I am once again at a loss to comprehend your intentions, but that’s nothing new either.” Sam was getting angry again, but at least with anger he knew what to do.

“Wouldn’t you think that, if indeed that was my intention, I’ve already gotten what I wanted?” Sam looked at him as if he had seen him for the first time. “Yes, I was wondering about that myself.”

“And what conclusion have you drawn?”

“None,” Sam admitted.

“Ah! A difficult one to argue with.”

“Listen! I don’t know what is happening to me!” Vimes was yelling now, “I love Sybil, and I don’t understand how I am still thinking of you, wanting to touch you and relive the night of the 25th! Damn you! What have you done to me?” he glared at the Patrician, panting, flushed with helpless anger, fists locked in furious, knuckled balls.

Vetinari took a step closer and held Sam’s gaze. “I have fallen in love with you.”

“You what?” There was only a hoarse whisper, that managed to escape his throat.

“I know, I was quite taken aback myself!”

They were staring at each other, both trying to figure out what the other would do next. Vimes was startled by the Patrician’s admission, while Vetinari, his heart racing, was still replaying Sam’s last words in his head. _“Wanting to touch you and relive the night of the 25 th!” _The Commander made some false starts to speak but only got as far as clearing his throat when they heard a carriage crossing the bridge. The Patrician’s black coach stopped next to them, and one of the guards opened the door expectantly.

“After you, Sir Samuel.” Vimes climbed into the coach without hesitation, and his gaze followed Vetinari as he settled down opposite to him.

“Do you mean, what you just said?” he asked.

“What? That my own feelings surprised me…” But then he looked at Vimes’ sincere expression and opted out of sarcasm. He nodded, “Yes.”

Sam grunted and turned to glare out of the window for the rest of the short ride, his mind racing. He knew he wanted this but wasn’t sure if he could give in to the need. It was easier a few weeks ago. He was preoccupied and didn’t really suspect anything until it was too late. Having let things progress that far, he didn’t really know how to stop them then. Now it was different. He couldn’t blame this on despair or on time travel shock anymore. Now he knew precisely what he was heading for.

Vetinari watched, curious how Vimes battled with himself. He still wasn’t entirely sure what the outcome would be. He was willing to risk everything to have this man, but he couldn’t do this without the Commander’s consent, not anymore. He didn’t want to break him but love him and, in turn, be loved by him. Give him everything he wanted to take and take everything the other would offer in return. He was so close but knew the copper well enough not to press it any further.

They stopped at the palace gates. “My coach is at your disposal, Sir Samuel if you wish to return home,” said Vetinari quietly and moved to open the door. Vimes’ hand shot out and held his arm.

“Is this one of your political games?”

“No.” Vetinari looked at him, shook his head and said with a sad little smile. “At the risk of repeating myself: if it was, I already would have gotten what I wanted.” Vimes held his gaze for a second, then leaned in and kissed him gently. Then with a soft smile, he opened the door. “After you, my lord.”

\----------------

This time they made love slowly and gently. Without urgency, they explored each other’s needs and drove one other to the edge of sanity. There were passion and admission, tenderness and satisfaction, a sense of inevitable bond and the impression that nothing could and should have felt so good. 

As morning slowly flowed over the city Havelock was lying on his back, Sam’s head on his chest, his arms embracing him tightly. His breath stolen away, and sleep slowly engulfing him, Vimes murmured “I am not giving up the cigar.”

Vetinari smiled down at him and ran his slender fingers fondly through the Commander’s grayish-brown hair. “Only if you shed that ridiculous tailcoat with the tights.” Vimes snorted and then yawned. “That’ll be one of those rare orders that I might just obey.” and with that, he fell asleep. Havelock’s expression softened as he looked at Sam’s peaceful face and marveled at his good fortune. He sighed indulgently and let sleep flow over him. As he slipped into oblivion, he thought “ _Who would have guessed that the Commander had it in him?”_

\----------------

The messenger from the Palace just left the Ramkin estate.

_“Lady Ramkin, I apologize for leaving the ball so abruptly. In light of tonight’s event, I hope you forgive me, my lady. Due to unforeseen complications at the Post Office, the Commander’s presence is required at the Palace. I apologize, Lady Ramkin, but I am afraid Sir Samuel will not return home before sunrise.”_

_Yours truly_

_Lord Havelock Vetinari_

Lady Sybil folded the letter with the neat cursive handwriting, looked up thoughtfully and smiled.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know how you liked it. ;o)


End file.
